Breath Held and Clockhands Ticking
by and suddenly
Summary: By the time she's no longer just your best friend's sister, it's already too late – she's gone, setting the world on fire and molding its ash into whatever she pleases like she used to do to you, and you can't help but stand there and watch her burn so brightly, wondering when everything changed.


Because by the time she's no longer just your best friend's sister, it's already too late – she's gone, setting the world on fire and molding its ash into whatever she pleases like she used to do to you, and you can't help but stand there and watch her burn so brightly, wondering when everything changed.

* * *

She's almost sixteen when you first notice her, in a way that isn't through the eyes of a brotherly figure or a partner in crime.

She's telling Carlos off for breaking her mom's vase by semi-accident, and the scene is so familiar but you're the only thing that stands out, because instead of laughing at him or attempting to clear yourself of all guilt you're busy staring at her, busy being confused as to why you are.

Worn out sneakers and a colorful t-shirt and the same expression as always, disbelieving at your careless stupidity, but she's not exactly the same because instead of cowering away from her glare you're following the waves of her hair falling down her back and her legs that weren't as long the last time you checked and her features, no longer childish and round but sharper and thinner and _striking_.

And so it has to be that she's not the same because you don't think _you've_ changed, don't think you're capable of it, and if it isn't you that's not the same then it has to be her, doesn't it?

But she's sixteen and you're nearing twenty-one and she's still just a child, even if you only just noticed she's beginning to grow out of the body of one, and she's turning away from Carlos and suddenly you're the one getting the fed up eye-roll, and as if nothing happened the world snaps back into place and she's Katie again, tiny and fierce and Kendall's baby sister, and still one of the only people who can order you into behavior with nothing more than the glance of an eye.

You don't forget that moment, though, the first moment in 2J's kitchen under no special occasion other than your everyday life. Can't forget, even when you really try to.

* * *

Six months pass before you let yourself think of her again, and it isn't sudden this time, doesn't catch you by surprise – because you've been noticing her, little by little, noticing that when your thoughts escape you instead of staring into the air your eyes find their way to her, noticing that when she moves your body unintentionally mirrors her, noticing that you hug her too tightly and look into her eyes for too long and listens when she talks, too closely, even when sometimes all you really hear isn't words but simply the sound of her voice.

You notice all that, but only for split seconds – catch yourself and immediately find whatever distraction you can, because she's still Katie and you're still James and you refuse to let yourself think of her in any way other than what she always has been, since before she can even remember.

It's bound to fail, eventually, bound to crash and burn at your feet, and you don't let yourself linger on that thought for too long but you know that it's true, in your mind, know that you've never been good with denying yourself even when absolutely necessary.

So no; it doesn't catch you by surprise this time around. This time, the realization comes to you in waves, back and forth like the tide, and you try to push it away but it keeps flooding you, dripping into your consciousness little by little until it isn't something you can escape anymore, until you _are_ the ocean and denying what you know is true is all you have left.

It all comes down to that well-known spot on the orange couch, and maybe it's fitting that your misery reaches its peak there, huddled against the corner with your arms wrapped around her, because you've sat on that couch a million times and you've looked at her a million times more, but the couch isn't the same and she isn't either, and maybe this is what irony looks like in real life.

She doesn't cry, because she's Katie – and you wouldn't expect anything else from her, wouldn't dream that she'd be an ice-cream and romcoms kind of girl, but it's her first serious break-up and even when she doesn't admit it you know it's needed, so you swallow your doubts and silence the voices in your head and hug her close to you, pressed into your chest, and convince yourself that it's okay and it's the right thing to do, because she doesn't pull away and because Kendall would've done the same if he was the one to find her sprawled across the couch in sweats and a blank expression.

She doesn't say anything, and neither do you – her silence probably resulting from not wanting to talk about it and yours because you can't trust whatever tumbles off your tongue if you do – but you know that you've done the right thing despite everything, because after a moment that stretches too long her shoulders sag and she melts into you, her ragged edges fitting into your own like a puzzle, fingers curling around your waist and her warm exhale meeting your neck, all in one moment when she lets herself go and you know did good.

"He kinda turned out to be a jerk," she tells you quietly, and you feel her words with your skin more than you hear them with your ears, and for a second you don't know how to reply, your breath losing track of itself and your heart forgetting to count its own beats.

Her hair is in your nose in the smell of apple shampoo and her arms are wrapped tightly around you and you can feel her body-heat and you're lost in the moment, forgetting that she isn't a girl you're trying to charm and she never could be, forgetting that what you're doing is your overly-protective brotherly-like duties. And for a moment, it seems possible, within reach; for a moment, it feels like you could hug her differently, not like this, not under this circumstances; for a moment, it's like you're someone else and so is she, and you don't have to think too hard because if she was anyone else, this would be something you're practically an expert in.

But then the moment is gone and you have to remind yourself that you are you and she is she and you can't be the ladies-man you usually are, not around her, have to defy your instincts because she can't be _a girl_, not if you want to retain both of your sanities.

Instead, you brush away all of your thoughts and you rub circles on her shoulder with your thumb and you tell her, "Jerk or not, you are _way_ too good for him," and you realize that it's one hundred percent true, and that the boy isn't the only one who fits the description.

Because even if she wasn't Katie and there wasn't this age difference and she wasn't Kendall's little sister, she's still who she is in her essence. She's brilliant and headstrong and unrelenting and tough, and she can make it out of anything and still smile brightly as she does, and you're none of those things and while you're good-looking and you definitely know so, it's just not enough. Not with her.

She smiles, a little, the corners of her mouth twisting upwards, and that's when you promise that this is all you'll ever be, promise to ignore this magnetic attraction you feel towards her, because if you take one wrong step you'll shatter her, shatter both of you, and she might be strong enough to get back on her feet but you won't be, and you never want to hurt her if you can help yourself.

Later, you watch proudly with the boys by your side as she kicks the boy's ass on the grass in the park, and Kendall's muttering something about how he should be the one to punch his little sister's ex, and Logan says, "I guess Katie can handle it all on her own," and you realize - it's true.

* * *

Suddenly, she's seventeen, and you don't even notice – because where did time go, it's like you turned your back for one moment and when you looked again ten years have passed, because you've known her since what feels like forever and you don't remember all these years going by, not enough to make her seventeen and heading into her last year of school.

And now, all there is are choices, and they aren't yours but you feel responsible, because Katie wants business-school and she wants the best and she wants to take the world by storm, and she can do all that, you all know she can – but when someone says Ross what isn't said is Michigan, and when someone says Cornell what no one mentions is New York, and when someone says MIT the unvoiced is Massachusetts, and everyone seems to discuss what are her best options but you're too busy looking at her.

When no one says Michigan, she bites her lip; when no one mentions New York, she sighs inaudibly; when no one voices Massachusetts, her eyes flicker out, a bit, lose some of their light, and you don't know how you're the only one who sees but you don't say anything, because these aren't your choices.

Ant then. Then, it's almost spring, and she walks in with her back straight and she slams an acceptance letter onto the table, and there's silence and there's pride in her eyes and then Mrs. Knight nearly cries, and the letter says Berkley and all you can hear in the unspoken is California, and when everybody hugs Katie she catches your eyes, for a split of a moment that seems longer than a lifetime, and you realize that maybe these weren't your choices but maybe you were just a little more involved in the decision-making than you thought – in a roundabout way.

And that terrifies you. To the very bone.

* * *

Almost a year later and you're twenty-three and the closest you'll ever be to a responsible adult, which means nothing but the fact that you have your own apartment by yourself and you go grocery shopping and pay the bills.

(In the small letters between the lines it also says that you have a ballpit in the corner of said apartment by the huge flat-screen tv, and grocery shopping means cart-racing with Carlos in the supermarket, and paying the bills means getting a text from Logan reminding you that you should.

But you never claimed you'd be an adult, certainly not a boring one, so you find that maybe this is the sort of life you were always headed towards, and you don't mind one bit.)

Nearly November, already, and the semester's long since started – and you get updates from Katie when something funny happens in class and you get frequent meltdowns from Mrs. Knight when she realizes her babies are all grown-up and you get rushed rants in a concerned tone from Kendall on boys' night, but you only find your way into that life at half past two at night on a weekday, Katie's ID flashing up on your phone, and her voice is shakier and lighter than usual and the alcohol can be heard laced with her words and before you can even pull on a jacket you're already in the car, on the way to her.

You find her, standing thirty feet away from a group of loud students clearly passing a few stolen bottles between them, and you're not even surprised because she isn't legal and she isn't even nineteen and she hasn't drunk that often before, but even in that state of mind she was able to stop herself from drinking too much, because she's Katie and that's how she does things.

Drunk Katie isn't all that much different than sober Katie, you find. She's a little loose and a little tired and a little unsteady, and her words come slower and so do her reflexes, but she isn't a giggly drunk or a clingy drunk, which makes it easier to help her into the elevator in your building and then past your doorstep and into the guest bedroom, the one you have for when Camille kicks Logan out and Carlos can't be bothered to go home and Kendall stays over for movie nights just because he feels like it.

(Later, much later, you ask her why she called you. She says that her mom would have fainted and Kendall would have thrown a fit and you were the first one to come to mind, and she looks away from you when she says that, doesn't meet your eye.

She asks why you let her stay, why you didn't take her to her dorms or to her mom's or Kendall's. You say that you didn't want to leave her on her own and that her mom would have freaked out and that Kendall wouldn't know what to do with himself, and you avoid her eyes as much as she did yours and think that maybe you're more on the same page than you originally realized.)

* * *

You wake up to the smell of breakfast for the first time in years, because it's not that you can't cook but that you can't find the energy to do so before noon, and it's not often that you have someone who stays the night and wakes up before you do.

Bacon and toasts are on the counter in two plates you didn't even know you owned, and Katie's rummaging the fridge in last night's clothes, and you find yourself thinking that if this is what hangover is like for her than she must have some magical ability, because god knows it isn't what _you_ look like hungover – awake and functioning, not to mention standing on two feet and making breakfast.

She turns around when you climb onto the stool by the counter, gives you a smile that says gratitude and demands to know where your orange-juice is, and complains a little about how disorganized your kitchen is but not mean-spiritedly, because you don't think she _can_ be mean and also because it's sort of the truth.

You point out the carton and grab a fork and a knife and demand back, asking questions like how did she even find the energy to cook and how is it that she's standing and how the hell she found your aspirin, when you notice the glass of water in the corner by the stove. And she ignores you for the most part, makes her way around your things like she belongs there, like she's been there since forever, and you eat breakfast and you watch tv and you laugh and you talk, and suddenly it's late at night and you don't have the heart nor the desire to throw her out, so she stays. Just another night.

* * *

A month passes and she hasn't been to her dorms for more than ten minutes to grab a change of clothes, and she has a key to your apartment and her toothbrush finds its place by the sink right next to yours, and she walks in one night after a day of classes and informs you that she talked to her dorm-manager and told her she found her own place, and that's all you talk about it, because by then, it's clear that she's not going anywhere.

And maybe having a roommate is exactly what you need, but maybe having _her_ as a roommate is exactly what would end you - and worst of all things, maybe having her as a roommate is exactly what you want.

* * *

Crispy leaves of autumn and colorful flowers of spring and thick warmth of summer and the cool breeze of winter; the seasons pass and time passes with them, and it's like you're becoming part of nature, part of the cycle that repeats itself with every spin the earth makes around the sun. It's the daily ritual, the way her shoes are by the door and her favorite cereal is in the cupboard and the smell of her soap in the air, it's how you know when she'd be home every day of the week and the way you call it home like it's granted that it's home for both of you, a place you share, a place you return to when you need to be yourselves.

She's there, with your every move and your every breath and your every word, there constantly in your physical space and your mental one, in the back of your head where you keep things like how to keep breathing without thinking about it.

And you're afraid she's going to break you, because the worst part is that you love it.

But the thing about people that are constantly by our sides is that we don't notice them, not until it's too late - and you can hear her voice if you close your eyes and you could map out her smile if asked, but you don't notice what's really going on until you're faced with it, because you made a promise years ago to never let her too close, and you broke it without knowing you did.

There's a hockey game on and there's beer in your hand and the boys are all around you, sinking into your couch and occasionally yelling at the screen when the players do something dumb, and Kendall's in the kitchen looking for more snacks when he makes a sound of disgust and says aloud, "I can't believe you let Katie take over so much of the cupboard space with her food. I mean, who even _eats_ those energy bars?", and you answer with a noncommittal huff because the answer is no one, no one eats those energy bars but Katie, but she loves them and she put four boxes of them in there and you didn't even stop to think when you had to move your food to another cabinet, because you didn't mind, because she wanted it there and that was all that mattered.

Because if she wants something, you'd do your best to make it happen – do your best to help or support or encourage, because when she gets her way she smiles the way she does and kind of skips a little after, and sometimes you can see her do it in the living-room when she nailed an essay and she thinks you're not looking but you are, and you smile, small and private and content and to no one but yourself.

Kendall's back, throwing himself onto the couch and offering you popcorn, and you decline because your body's too busy going into shock to want snacks, and Kendall doesn't even notice because he has no reason to, grabs a handful of popcorn and comments nonchalantly, "I'm kinda impressed, honestly. Never thought you'd share your space willingly, you being your first priority and all."

But the point is, you're not. The point is, she's your first priority. The point is, you're selfish and egocentric and self-centered and you value your happiness above all, but when she's happy you mostly are, too, and what does that mean about you, that your happiness is now attached to someone else's, that your concerns involve her problems just as often as they do yours?

And, shit.

You might be a little bit in love.

* * *

She comes home after the boys leave and she shrugs out of her jacket and her face is so bright when she chatters on about her day and your heart kind of beats faster, not because of her, not exactly, not in the way it does when you're crushing on someone – it beats because you understand now, because every step she makes entrances you and every word she says fascinates you and you like her weird food addiction and the way she always forgets to turn off the lights at night and the way she rolls her eyes when she thinks you're an idiot and the way your minds work alike, the way your plans are often borderline genius; you like the way you're childish and she's mature even though this isn't how it should be, even though she's so much younger, you like the way she'd laugh at you for hours when she has to kill a spider because you're terrified and the way you'd try to wrestle the remote away from her when you want to watch reality and she doesn't, and the way she always gets it anyway, always somehow wins even though she's tiny and you were a hockey player and you don't think you're letting her win, at least not intentionally; you like her ambition and her passion and her stubbornness, and the truth is you think you might like everything there is about her - and that, more than anything, makes your heart beat faster.

* * *

And now she's twenty and a bit and you're almost twenty-five and she's no longer just your best friend's sister to you, she's _everything_ \- but it's already too late, she's gone, she's brilliant and she's working her way into the industry in a storm, in a fire, and you promised something and you broke that promise like you always knew you would, subconsciously, but it doesn't mean you have to drag her down with you.

So you don't, and she doesn't know, and you suffer silently and think that maybe love is willing to do that for someone who isn't yourself for the first time in your life.

* * *

You watch her from the sidelines, quietly, watch her and pretend you're okay, because you're not, not exactly, not the way you wish you could be.

She's there but she's not – there, always there, around you and next to you and sleeping on the other side of the wall, but she's not, not really, because she's not yours and you can't hug her just because and you definitely can't kiss her, even though you find that you want nothing more than that at eight in the morning over two cups of coffee, when you're both in pajamas and you haven't even done your hair.

Time passes and things change and she graduates, gets a job and works her way up the ladder with her eyes set on the very top, but what doesn't change is you, you and the way you see her, and you're afraid that it might be something that would never change and simultaneously afraid that it would.

But what does change is the way she sees you, or at least you think it does, because sometimes she watches you and doesn't look away when you catch her and sometimes she sits too closely on the couch and sometimes you turn your head while you're talking and suddenly she's there, in your space, and you don't dare to make a move because you _promised_ but she's staring at your like you're stupid, like you're missing something, and you know that look better than any other but you don't understand it this time, not in this situation, even though you think you know the options – because you're afraid to acknowledge that she might feel even remotely the same as you, afraid because you know that would lead to nothing but pain and disaster and heartbreak.

So nothing changes, not really, even while everything else changes – you're still you and she's still she and you two are stable, you're fixed in place, and sometimes you wish you would move, even a little, but you know that you shouldn't and so you look away and ignore that look she gives you.

And time passes, and that's how things are, and that's how things will remain.

* * *

Until enough time passes and things aren't, not anymore.

A club, bright lights and people and music playing, and it's all for you because you're turning twenty-six and everyone you know are there, but what really matters is where you're at, in the middle of the dance-floor shouting lyrics with the boys and spinning Katie around and laughing until your sides hurt because you love it, because center-stage is where you feel at home.

This is how it goes – women giving you stares and you only having eyes for one, and then remembering who you are and the role you should be playing, and you wink at some lady in a pink dress and she grins back but your hand is still clasped in Katie's mid-dance, and the music is so loud it allows you to forget what your life is actually like, and you sing three songs and you drink without caring and you're having fun, and then it's time to go and you find that it'd be sunrise in a less than two hours and that surprises you, because time passes so quickly when parties are involved.

And then, you're home, a little wobbly on your own feet, and you might trip once or twice but that's okay, you have alcohol in your veins rather than blood and adrenaline in your lungs rather than air, and you find that this makes you hazier than usual because Katie's closing the door after you and she seems odd, seems a little off, and she's wearing an actual dress and her hair is done up and she's so _pretty_, but instead of being pushed into action by intoxication you want to run, want to do something self-destructive and stupid to stop these feelings, because they run so deep within you than even under influence of alcohol you know what you shouldn't do when it comes to her.

She's putting her purse on the couch and takes off her jacket and she does everything very, very slowly, her back turned to you, and she asks, "Why didn't you go home with that girl?", and her voice is dangerously static.

You shrug, give a half-assed excuse and turn away too quickly, losing balance and feeling your head swim a little and not caring, because you'd rather fall than answer her question with the truth.

But she isn't having it, she's Katie and she never does, and then she's right there and her eyes are drilling holes into you and for some reason she's _angry_ and then she kisses you, and you can't breathe.

You kiss back, though. In the few seconds where your body and heart are in control, not your brain.

Then it's over, and she pulls back, and she's shouting or maybe it's just her words that are loud in their meaning, and you're a little confused and you don't really understand and everything kind of blurs together, and she's demanding answers and saying something about, "_Three – four years?",_ and you don't understand, you really don't, and all you can find in yourself to say is, "I don't want to hurt you. I can't break you – I can't."

And that was the wrong thing to say, it definitely was, because she's no longer angry, she's _furious_, you've never seen her like this in your life, and you're scared and unsure and she says, slowly and emotionlessly, "I can handle myself just _fine_," grabs the jacket she took off a minute before and storms out the door, the slam echoing through the apartment.

* * *

And the thing is, you know she does. You knew that always, knew when she was nine and smarter than you and when she was sixteen and kicking an ex's ass and when she was twenty-two and taking the world by storm. You always knew that, but maybe you chose to pretend you didn't, because pretending you were protecting her was actually protecting you, and you never truly believed you were good enough for her, and it's selfish but maybe also selfless, in a very confusing way.

* * *

You fall asleep on the couch and wake up with your back aching and your muscles begging you to stay still, and there's a glass of water and aspirin on the coffee-table and you feel relieved, because at least she's home, at least she's okay.

You don't move much from the couch for the remainder of that morning. You can't find the energy to shower, you don't feel like answering any of your congratulating birthday texts, and all you can bring yourself to do is pour milk on your cereal and drown yourself in crappy tv with your mind only half concentrating, while its other half is watching her locked bedroom's door, waiting for her to finally make an appearance.

She's a ghost in the apartment all throughout that weekend, only emerging from her room when you aren't paying attention like she's got a sixth sense, like she can see when your back is turned – and it wouldn't surprise you, not by a long shot, because she always seemed to know more than all of you combined and you sigh when you realize that this is a prime example of one of those times, the times when she outsmarted you and you stood dense in her shadow, screwing things up without thinking because this is how you are, and you were a fool to believe you could change.

So you go about your life, or at least the silhouette that's been left of it. You wake up and you go to meetings and you eat all on your own, and she isn't there, even though she technically is – you don't see her and you don't think she sees you but you know she's there because you can hear her footsteps across the floor when you're in another room and there are more dishes in the sink than you used and you can hear the shower running while you're falling asleep inside your bed.

You don't know what you want, is the thing – and this is what keeps you awake at night, what stops you from crossing the apartment and knocking on her door. You don't know if you want her to talk to you or if you want to talk to her, don't know what you'd say or what you'd do, still don't have any clue about this situation, still don't want to hurt her – or, really, hurt yourself. The only think you know, the only thing you've ever known, is that you want _her_ – and that, it seems, is the only thing you can't have.

* * *

But it all works out, because you've never known what you wanted and she always did, and just when you thought something was out of reach she'd come with a hand on her hip and a raised eyebrow and remind you that you're dumb then lay down the plan.

And maybe, that's why you mash so well.

* * *

It's late at night and you're flipping through pages of sheet music with bleary eyes, your attention worlds away – and you can hear her door creak open, her footsteps approaching you, and you freeze on your barstool because you don't know what she wants or what you want, don't know if her intention is for you to turn around and face her, don't know if you even want to do so.

She leaves you no choice though, as she often does, and her fingers on your shoulder make you jump in your own skin, body going rigid, and she isn't touching you, not really, hand hovering just above your skin – but it's more than enough to make you feel like the world is crumbling apart around you and you're a shaky leaf on a tree, holding on with all your might.

She doesn't say anything as she sighs, inching closer until her breath is on your neck, and you relax under her touch gradually because this is possibly everything you've ever wanted and it frightens you and thrills you at the same time.

You whisper that you're sorry and she nods, her chin resting against your shoulder-blades and her arm wrapped around you, and she says, "I was just so frustrated," and you don't know what to say, but you find that maybe there's nothing to say as you ignore the beating of your heart and twist on your seat, wrapping one arm around her waist gently enough so you can pretend it isn't there.

She talks then, light and airy as if the wind could blow her words away, of the years you thought you fought alone and of watching you from the sidelines waiting for your move, and she's hesitant and isn't any better than you in these things, but she has the guts you never had and immediately after she says "You were in denial about loving me and I wanted to punch you in the face," she pauses, you can hear the sharp intake of air into her lungs, and that makes both of you because in that moment you can't breathe and she asks, "You – do you?"

You can't speak, not because you have nothing to say – you have _too much_, too many words and things you never told her, never thought you could, and you want to tell her she's gorgeous when she's grumpy at seven in the morning before she brushed her teeth and that her passion for small handmade china kettles is endearing and that you love her stubbornness even when you feel like strangling her, and you say none of that because suddenly there aren't enough words in the world for all that you're feeling, so you get up in one swift motion and kiss her without thinking of older brothers or possible heartbreak or the consequences that are sure to come.

She kisses you back, clings to you on her very tiptoes while you bend down, and she pulls away a moment later to whisper, "You're an idiot," her breath hot against your lips, and you grin like the idiot you truly are and whisper back, "I know," then kisses her again just because you can.

And she could break you, you know that – you could break each other in the most horrible of ways known to man, and there'd be nothing you could do to stop it, because by now, you just can't bring yourself to care. You won't though, you know that as well – because she can handle herself and you trust her with your everything, and you went at this backwards but it doesn't matter because now you're here.

* * *

_fin._


End file.
